


the kind of star you would rather not be

by doublejoint



Category: One Piece
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29447574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: “I’ll explode if you do.”“You’d explode without me, too,” Kid says, and maybe that’s true.
Relationships: Eustass Kid/Killer
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39
Collections: February Ficlet Challenge 2021: Apocalypse No





	the kind of star you would rather not be

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 14 of the February Ficlet Challenge: Supernova
> 
> (tfw the ship you chose ahead of time fills the prompt inherently...)
> 
> mentions of blood/violence/injury

They’re being called supernovas, along with all those other pirates, people Killer doesn’t know or particularly care about. Those other people can flame out fast and turn into neutron stars as far as he’s concerned. It’s good to have competition, but they aren’t wanting for it now, not as they forge ahead in the New World. But that he and Kid are among that number seems nothing short of bad luck. 

“It’s respect, Killer. They can’t ignore us.”

“Would they be able to anyway?” says Killer. 

He folds the newspaper down; there’s not much else there he’s interested in, or doesn’t already know. His bounty’s gone up again; Kid’s hasn’t, but Kid’s still the highest of their class, if, again, they can be organized in such a way.

“Well, no,” says Kid. “But they admit it.”

He smiles, bright white teeth against dark red lips like fresh blood, and Killer’s often thought that if Kid’s ever stupid enough to get his teeth punched out in a fight he’d probably get gold or diamond replacements that hurt to look at, but no fists or weapons have been that close to his mouth in so many years, not since Kid still had all his baby teeth and got half of them knocked out fighting someone in their neighborhood who was older than Killer, even--together, the two of them had taken him down, but not without that cost. 

A supernova only lasts for a minute or so; Killer had read that in a textbook a very long time ago. They are blindingly bright, visible in the sky in broad daylight for days afterward, but the explosion itself is barely a few moments, and on the scale of the life of a star, an impossibly tiny fraction of time. If it were a choice between going out in a blaze of glory or sinking like an anchor in the ocean, Killer knows which one he’d pick, which one Kid would pick. But if it’s a choice between flaming out and staying lit, Killer also knows which one he’d pick, not that the choice is necessarily his. 

“Every star burns out eventually,” says Kid. “Besides, it’s supposed to be more catchy than accurate.”

That’s true. There’s nothing that sells quite like sensation. Killer creases over the fold in the newspaper again, and as he goes to redo it, Kid catches his hand. He could gut a person in seconds with the right knife in that hand, rip apart the metal frame of a building with a flick of his fingers. He has the raw strength, but also the control to move his fingers in more delicate ways. Or to leave them be, wrapped around Killer’s hand almost as if catching and blocking a punch. 

Kid can be a supernova; he’s bigger and louder and brighter than anyone, willing to call anyone’s bluff and go farther than anyone thinks he will, walk over the edge and just keep walking, held up by nothing other than his sheer willpower and a magnetism that’s got nothing to do with his devil fruit. But Killer’s the one who has to pull him back down to earth when he gets too far away from orbit, who slashes through opponents neatly, or sloppily sometimes, in order to just get to Kid, who settles him down when he gets too mouthy and they’re in a situation where talking will achieve their objective and shooting won’t, who keeps his own hands steady even if they can’t do the same things that Kid’s can. 

“Killer,” Kid says, his voice hardening like iron gathering around his arms. “You know I’m good enough to cover my own ass if I do something stupid.”

“I know,” says Killer. 

(He is not going to say useless things, that the New World is dangerous or that Kid won’t see the other side if he really does underestimate the situation. Kid knows that, too; he does plenty of stupid shit but he’s got enough common sense to know that much.)

“Anyway, you’ll be involved if it’s really outrageous,” Kid says, and there’s that smile again, contagious enough that Killer’s lips hurt suppressing it on his own face, behind his mask. 

“I know,” Killer says again. “I trust you. Captain.”

Kid squeezes Killer’s hand, his thumbnail digging into Killer’s palm. 

It’s a stupid thing to worry about when there are many more obvious concerns right in front of them. There’s no use in getting hung up on an arbitrary grouping that doesn’t affect his daily life. The press can say what they want; people who don’t know him can say what they want. It’s not as objectionable as laughing at him, in which case he’d tear them right down if Kid didn’t get there first. And being steadier and more grounded than Kid is no great achievement; he wouldn’t have his own high bounty and wouldn’t have gotten along with Kid in the first place if he were to contort himself to fit the position others told him to hold. 

And if Kid’s going to be a years-long supernova, leaving explosions in his wake that rock the ocean and the land, smoking guns in each hand, then Killer’s going to be one of his own, feeding off the energy from Kid’s explosions and exploding it right back, even if that’s not how physics works. They’ll make it happen.

“I’ll explode if you do.”

“You’d explode without me, too,” Kid says, and maybe that’s true.

It’s impossible to imagine, though. Kid looks like he can see Killer’s exact expression through the mask. 

“I’d want you to see it,” Killer says. 

Kid leans across the table, crumpling the newspaper in the process, his free hand pulling up Killer’s mask in one motion, and the movement of his arm through the air causes his bangs to fly up from over his eyes, and for a brief moment his vision is completely unobstructed. Killer’s the one who has to lean in the rest of the way to kiss him. He keeps his eyes open, his nose brushing against Kid’s and floating in the center of his vision, Kid’s eyes gently shut, the same way as when he’s in a deep sleep. Kid’s goggles press against his forehead, cushioned by Killer’s bangs. Their join hands are pressing against the table, still, and Kid’s leaning too hard; it’s about to fall, and when it does, noisily against the deck, Kid swears and jumps back. He kicks it and stomps forward again. Killer’s mask is about to slip down on his face again, but he holds it in place. He’s far too large to fit comfortably in Killer’s lap now, but he perches there anyway, holding on with his arms around Killer’s shoulders, his legs around Killer’s waist and the back of the chair. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
